


Darkened Light, Starless Night

by fex_libris



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, POV Second Person, Stan And Ford Are Bad At Communicating, Stan POV, blind faith au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-03
Updated: 2016-12-12
Packaged: 2018-08-19 06:36:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8193971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fex_libris/pseuds/fex_libris
Summary: Things don't go back to normal overnight, and Stan has doubts that there's even a normal to go back to at all.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey! this fic is inspired by [Blind Faith](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6473938) by pinesinthewoods, and picks up where that one ends, so go read that first if you haven't already!
> 
> [also on tumblr](https://fexiled.tumblr.com/post/151272209454/darkened-light-starless-night-chapter-1)

You don't know how long you lay on that beach, feeling the tide lapping at your ankles and listening to Ford breathing deeply beside you, almost in time with the waves, but slowly the adrenaline that's been nearly the only thing keeping you going since you fell into the portal fades, and fatigue sinks deep down into your bones instead. If you let your mind drift and ignore the burning pain in your shoulder and eyes, you can almost pretend you didn't just escape some strange dimension only to end up stranded in another strange (albeit considerably more pleasant) dimension. You can pretend you're laying on Glass Shard Beach instead, and that your exhaustion isn't from trying to flee from the cave full of dangerous creatures that nearly turned your brother's brain to mush, it's just because you're worn out from a long day of working on the Stan O' War. You're pretty sure you doze off at one point, because your body jolts you back to wakefulness before you can pass out completely, and you have to force yourself to stay alert. No matter how tired you are, or how nice the sun and gentle breeze feel on your face, you can't let yourself fall asleep here. You're not safe yet; you need to keep moving.

You nudge Ford with your elbow. "Let's go, we gotta find a safer place to rest," you say, slowly pushing yourself to your feet. You think dragging a one ton weight might take less effort than getting your body to move right now.

Ford makes a soft noise of protest, clearly close to sleep himself. "Tired," he mumbles.

"I know, I'm tired too," you say sympathetically, hoping that Ford is awake enough to listen to you. "But we can't sleep here. It's dangerous to stay out in the open like this." You hold your hand out, ready to help him up if need be, and give him a weak smile. "C'mon, don't make me have to carry you."

Ford groans, and you almost laugh, because it's the same petulant sound he would make whenever you tried to wake him up for school after he pulled an all-nighter. If he had a pillow, you're sure he would be trying to hide his head under it, too, in an attempt to get just a few more seconds of shut-eye. But he sits up and grabs your hand anyway, and you haul him upright. He sways on his feet a little, leaning against you for balance.

"We don't have to go very far," you assure him. "Just find a sheltered place, any place. What's around here?"

Ford raises his head off your shoulder to look around. "There's a f-forest. O-Over there." He takes your arm and points it away from the shore. "Not... N-Not far." His words are still clipped and shaky, but just hearing him speak at all is enough to make you weak with relief.

"You okay to walk?"

"Y-Yeah."

"Alright, lead the way."

You lost your walking stick back in the cave, so Ford has to guide you, but thankfully there are few obstacles you need to avoid on the beach. That changes quickly once you reach the trees, however, where it feels like every plant is conspiring to trip you up. Ford gives out warnings for things you need to step over, and holds branches and bushes out of the way so you can walk by easily, but it still isn't enough to keep you from stumbling on some small rock or tree root what feels like every other step. There's no clear path to follow, and the trees and undergrowth feel like they're pressing in on you from all sides as you walk. On top of that, every distant rustle of leaves or strange bird call sets you even more on edge, half expecting a bear or mountain lion or some other vicious animal to come charging out at you at any moment and send you scrambling for shelter.

The only way you can tell the sun is setting is by the growing chill in the air. And by Ford starting to trip as much as you do as it gets too dark for him to see, though that could just be from his own tiredness.

The trees grow too close together in most places to allow you a decent amount of sleeping room. The clearest spot you manage to find is a shallow, sandy ditch just barely big enough for you and Ford to lay side by side. It's not ideal, but neither of you can bring yourselves to search further; you feel like you're about to drop dead, and you're amazed that Ford has stayed on his feet for so long. At least this spot is partially obscured by bushes, which will help keep you hidden from predators, so it's as good as you'll get for now.

You lay down and take a moment to roll up your jacket into the world's most pathetic pillow while Ford shifts around beside you. You're about to question what he's doing when he finally lays down as well, draping his coat over the both of you. It's still not enough to keep out the cold (or even cover you both completely), and Ford scoots closer, shivering as he curls up against you. You can't tell if he's trembling from cold or hunger or fatigue or all of the above, but you wrap your arms around him all the same. Ford relaxes slightly at the contact, and you try to tell yourself that you're mostly holding him so close to keep the two of you warm—or, at the very least, that it's not entirely because you just need to make sure that he's protected, that he isn't going anywhere, that nothing can take him away again without going through you first. Despite everything, just feeling the weight of him in your arms—knowing he's still here and safe and _alive_ —sets you more at ease as well.

It's only now that you notice just how skinny he's gotten, and you're startled and concerned by the realization. Ford has always weighed less than you, but he's never felt quite so... fragile. You think back to how ragged he looked when you first saw him again, unshaven and disheveled, with such dark bags under his eyes, and find that you're not sure you could even guess how long it had been since he'd eaten or slept. Heck, you can barely remember when _you_ last had a proper meal, but at least you'd had some candy bars stashed away in your car to hold you over on the drive up to Oregon. It wasn't much, but it was something, and possibly more than Ford had had.

You had already decided that your first priority tomorrow would be finding food, but now you're determined to make sure that Ford eats first. You can deal with the hollowness in your stomach for a little longer, if need be. It's not like you've never had to before; you're used to it by now.

Ford pipes up suddenly, startling you out of your thoughts. "S-Stanley?"

"Yeah?"

"I—" he starts, but cuts himself off immediately. You wait patiently while he takes a few seconds to gather his words. "I'm—I'm s-sorry. F-For everything." His voice is shaking almost as much as he is, and you hold him a little tighter.

You sigh quietly. You get the feeling you're going to be hearing those words a lot in the coming days. "I know," you murmur, rubbing gentle circles into his back. "It's okay. We're gonna get through this together. Nothing can keep a Pines down, right?"

"R-Right. _Right_ ," Ford replies, tremors slowly subsiding. He sniffles a little, but you're glad to hear he already sounds steadier, stronger, just from your few words of reassurance.

Ford yawns, the sound sudden and quickly muffled by his hand. You stifle a chuckle. "Get some sleep, okay Sixer? We'll take on the world tomorrow."

Ford hums an affirmative. "Night, Lee." You can practically hear his soft smile in the two simple words.

Without thinking, you lightly bump your forehead against his, a comforting gesture left over from when you were young. "G'night Ford," you say back, a small smile spreading across your face as well.

Ford is asleep in seconds, his muscles relaxing and his breaths becoming deep. You're about to follow suit when he curls closer to you and something knocks against your chest. It's the journal, you realize quickly. It's the thing that got you both into this mess to begin with, though your fight with Ford seems so long ago already, despite the persistent burning pain in your shoulder that says otherwise. Ford holds the book tight in his arms like a lifeline, like it's his most important possession even now, but to you it feels more like a brick wall between you. The thought makes an uncomfortable knot of tension tighten in your gut.

You guess you can't really blame Ford for being so attached to the journal, though. He obviously must take some comfort in keeping it close, much like how you've practically wrapped yourself around him at this very moment. You know how much he wants to keep it protected.

After all, you saw how he reacted when you tried to burn it.

God, this is all your fault. You should've just done what Ford wanted from the very beginning, just taken the journal and left. It was stupid to think he would've wanted you to stick around; you would've just been a burden. Ford probably only asked for your help because he had no better options, not because of any brotherly bond you shared.

As you try to push the intrusive thoughts away, another doubt worms its way into your mind. It's the hardened, cynical part of you that's been burned too many times—figuratively and literally, now—that whispers the reminder that makes your heart sink: Nobody keeps you around unless they want something out of you.

But _no_ , that's not true, you try to force yourself to think instead. Ford wouldn't have worked so hard at trying to protect you back in the cave if he just wanted you to help him escape. If anything, you were weighing _him_ down most of the time, and yet he still stayed with you through everything. It's obvious he cares about you as much as you care about him.

But that journal resting against your chest feels like it weighs a hundred pounds, and you can't help but worry that there are things Ford still cares about more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaaa i haven't posted a serious fic in like 4 years, i don't know what i'm doing, help
> 
> this wasn't supposed to be a multi-chapter fic but what i've written so far is already over twice as long as i expected it to be so i'm splitting it up to make it easier to read. there'll probably be 3 or 4 chapters total (but the next ones will be longer than this lol)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adapting to new situations is difficult, but it quickly becomes clear that Stan isn't the only one stuggling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am so sorry it took me so long to update this!! my body unfortunately decided that it needed to recover from the stress of moving by sleeping for the entire month of november. i'm somewhat well-rested now, so hopefully there won’t be another two month gap between this chapter and the next one, ahaha
> 
> [also on tumblr](https://fexiled.tumblr.com/post/154385012219/darkened-light-starless-night-chapter-two)

It's stupid, so so stupid, quite possibly the dumbest thought you've had in years, but part of you expects (hopes) to wake up to find it had all been a dream. That maybe Ford knocked you out while you were fighting in front of the portal and that's all this has been. Just a dream; your mind taking everything that Ford had told you about what the portal was and why it was dangerous, and running away with it, creating some horrific dimension with equally horrific monsters that would've seemed right at home in one of those sci-fi creature features you and your brother used to sneak into theaters to watch when you were younger. It had to be a dream, because nothing like that could possibly be real, right? That cave wasn't real, the monsters and the mind games weren't real, the fire (hot too hot _too close to your eyes_ ) wasn't real because Ford would _never_ —

So, you expect to wake up from this dream and be somewhere else. Best case scenario, on a bed or a couch or maybe even a floor, you aren't too picky these days—though it would be nice if you at least had something soft to rest your head on. Worst case, you wake up on the porch of your brother's house or in your car because Ford has kicked you out of his life again, or maybe you wake up back in a motel in New Mexico, and there's no postcard slipped through the mail slot, because Ford never wanted you back in his life to begin with.

When you wake up, you expect any one of these things, but not reality.

Because reality is darkness and nothing else, and for a brief, terrified moment you think you're in the trunk of a car again, the worst of all worst case scenarios, the one you weren't expecting because the very thought of it makes your chest feel tight, panic bubbling up in your throat.

But that moment passes, and you realize there's a fresh breeze hitting your face, and when you raise a hand (just one, not bound to the other) above your head to feel for the hood of a trunk, you find only air. Slowly, the invisible vice around your chest loosens, letting you breathe easy again.

Your relief is short-lived, however, as the next realization hits hard and fast like a punch to the gut, pushing all the air out of your lungs in a devastated wheeze.

You can't see.

You wave a hand in front of your face a little too frantically and _you can't see_.

Something shifts by your side, groaning softly. You tense up immediately, fists clenched and ready to defend yourself from the unknown even though you have no idea how you'd even stand a chance fighting in this condition. "Stanley...?" the voice mumbles groggily, and it's just Ford, thank _god_ , Ford's still here and you're not alone, because you don't know what you'd do then.

"Ford," you breathe, voice strained, and because there's still some hopeful (stupid) part of you left, you ask, "Is—Is the sun up yet?" You even try to lift your head a little, as if you'll maybe see stars peeking through the forest canopy, or the faint color of the rising sun touching the sky.

Ford's soft "mm-hmm" is all it takes to crush that last idiotic shred of optimism. You let your head fall back, a sharp breath hissing out through your nose, a stream of profanity running through your thoughts. How dumb can you be, to forget what happened, to think that it would just fix itself overnight and everything would be okay? You should know by now that you're never that lucky. Your eyes are stinging and there's a lump steadily rising in your throat so you bite your tongue and force yourself to take deep, measured breaths because you are not going to cry, you refuse, you already cried enough about this before so you're _done_ , that's _it_.

Ford must notice the poor job you're doing of hiding that you're upset, though, because he asks if you're okay and you turn towards him without thinking and—

And you see nothing.

And the final realization hits, and you can't stop the choked sound that escapes you as you turn away.

You'll never see your brother's face again.

It was so much easier to not think about it before, when you were too busy focusing on other things, like trying to survive long enough to get out of that cave before Ford's sanity unraveled completely, or trying to find a safe resting place where you wouldn't get mauled by wild animals while you slept. But now, it is unavoidable, and it's all you can think about. Your thoughts flood with memories of the things you've lost, and you cling to those remembered images, trying to keep them preserved as clearly as you can in your mind, because that's the only place you'll see them from now on. You'll never be able to see the ocean or a clear blue sky or Ford's smile. You'll never be able to watch TV or drive a car or look at that old photo you kept taped to your car's sun visor, of you and Ford, young and laughing and _happy_. It _hurts_ , and it's a surprisingly familiar hurt, one you felt every time you were in dire straits and not 100% sure you'd make it out alive, and all you wanted was to see your twin one last time, to tell him how sorry you were for ruining everything.

You hadn't seen your brother in over a decade, and now he's _here_ , right next to you, and you'll never see him again.

There's something wet on your face, streaking down your cheeks. You wipe it away before Ford can notice or comment on it.

You hear Ford sit up beside you, and when he places a hand on your arm you jolt upright, trying to catch your breath. You hadn't noticed how shaky and shallow your breathing had gotten, despite your efforts to control it.

"A-Are you okay?" Ford asks again, worry crystal clear in his tone.

It would be so easy, you think, to just collapse into his arms and sob. A (weak, stupid) part of you so badly wants to cling to your brother like he's a buoy in a storm and let him hold you and comfort you and tell you lies that everything will be okay. Another (bitter, angry) part of you tells you that this is Ford's fault, and you should be resentful and unforgiving and hateful and— _no_. You stop that train of thought right there.

You are not going to cry, and you are not going to hate.

Instead, you shove your warring emotions aside completely. You take another deep breath, grit your teeth, and force yourself to your feet.

"We should get moving," you say, more harshly than you mean to. "We're wasting daylight."

"O-Okay," Ford says, startled, though he stands up quickly as well.

He hesitates before taking your hand and leading the way, but if he notices you trembling, he says nothing about it.

***

Adapting is... difficult, to say the least.

You waste no time in finding a new walking stick, not wanting to make Ford have to keep dragging you around. The loss of contact sends a spike of anxiety through you, the world suddenly feeling a thousand times more unfamiliar and completely overwhelming. You try your best to ignore it and press on, but after the fifth time you trip, even with the stick as a guide (you swear these tree roots have a mind of their own), Ford wordlessly takes your hand again, and you hate how relieved you feel, how dependent you are already.

You keep your head tilted down, like you'll be able to see where you're putting your feet if you just squint hard enough or something stupid like that, and you feel like even more of an idiot when you can't stop yourself from instinctively turning to see what caused a noise you heard, or what you just stumbled and tripped on. Every time, you remember too late how pointless and futile your actions are and want to kick yourself.

So yeah. It's difficult and it sucks and you're angry but you've adapted to everything else life has thrown at you already, and you'll be damned if you let this be the thing that stops you, no matter how hard it is.

The hardest part, though, is not being able to see Ford.

He's still barely verbal, only speaking to guide you over and around obstacles, and while he's at least not like he was back in the cave, muttering incoherent gibberish to himself under his breath, almost completely unresponsive to your words, you find this new silence unsettling in an entirely different way. You used to be able to read him so easily, to know what he was thinking just by the look on his face or the tone of his voice, but you've lost one of those two senses and Ford isn't speaking enough for you to make full use of the other. Now you might as well be walking side by side with a stranger.

Though, with all the years you've spent apart, you wonder if you'd still be able to read him even if you _could_  see.

Your attempts to engage him in conversation are met with little success at first; Ford gives mumbling one word responses to almost everything you say, sometimes forgoing words altogether in favor of a quiet sound of acknowledgement, the bare minimum to signify that he's even listening to you. You almost back off, worried about annoying him with too much talk, but you can't handle the silence. You need some kind of sound to focus on, _something_ to take your mind off this situation, even if it's just your own voice, so you keep making pointless small talk and trying to hold up the one-sided conversation as best you can. Eventually, your efforts pay off, and you start getting longer replies from Ford, and even a quiet snicker out of him when you crack a dumb joke about how the strange cries and calls of the creatures in the distance still sound better than some of the pop bands on the radio these days.

When you ask what the plan is for getting home, the change in Ford's demeanor is almost instantaneous. His voice turns hopeful as he speaks—slowly and softly at first, then picking up in speed and volume—about finding civilization so he can get materials to build some device that can open the way back. He starts describing the details of what he hopes to invent—what materials he'll need, what kind of power source it'll run on—and even though he's still stuttering and stumbling over words and the things he's talking about go right over your head, you can't help but smile, because this is the most he's spoken all morning.

This is the first time he actually sounds like your brother again.

"W-What's with that face?" Ford asks when he finally notices.

"Ah, nothing," you reply easily. "Just remembered how much of a giant nerd you are."

"Oh, s-shut up!" he gripes, but between the gentle shove he gives you and his good-natured tone, you know he's not really bothered. You shove him back—or try to anyway; you miss the first time and nearly lose your balance, frustratingly. The second attempt is successful, and you snicker when you hear Ford stumbling into the bushes.

Suddenly, there's the loud screech of a startled animal, followed by the sounds of something bursting out of the bushes and the frenzied flapping of wings, and you flinch and duck down as whatever creature you and Ford frightened with your movements practically rockets over your head.

"Whoa," you say, chuckling lightly as you try to force the tension out of your shoulders, " _someone's_ in a hurry."

"Oh my god," Ford breathes, awestruck, though you have no clue why. "That was incredible! D-Did you _see_ that?" You wince at the choice of words, but Ford must not notice your reaction, because he continues just as excitedly, "It was so beautiful! I've never—" and then cuts himself off with a quiet gasp, and you think the sound that follows is either him slapping his forehead or clapping a hand over his mouth as he belatedly realizes what he just said.

"Stanley, I'm—I'm so sorry," he stammers, the pure guilt and regret in his voice making him sound like he's apologizing for committing some unspeakable sin, rather than just a simple slip-up in his speech. "I-I didn't mean—I wasn't thinking, I—"

"It's fine," you say quickly, stopping his apologies in their tracks, because it is fine and you're not even mad or upset, so there's no reason for Ford to be acting like it's the end of the world. "Don't worry about it. What was that thing, anyway? Some kinda bird?"

"It... It was n-nothing," Ford says, quiet again. You frown skeptically. It definitely was _not_ nothing, if his reaction was any indication. "L-Let's just keep going," he adds quickly, before you can press him about it.

The two of you set off again. Ford doesn't take your hand this time, though he still walks close enough that your sleeves brush every few steps. The silence that settles between you feels infinitely more awkward now, but without being able to see Ford, you have no way of knowing if the vibes you're getting are correct or if it's just your anxiety getting the better of you again.

So you fall back on humor, as you always do, attempting to lighten the mood, if there's even a mood you need to lighten. "Hope whatever else we find out here is as scared of us as that thing was!" you say, maybe a little too loudly, and flash a grin in your brother's direction.

Ford doesn't laugh. He doesn't chuckle or scoff or make any sort of noise, and sure, maybe it wasn't that funny to begin with, but you were expecting at least _some_ reaction.

"Ford?" you ask, nervously. "You still with me?" And yeah, of _course_ he is—you can still hear his footsteps next to you and feel his arm brushing yours—but you can't stop the sudden apprehensive thoughts that flare up, the irrational fear that Ford's not with you _mentally_ , that maybe he's still somehow being tormented by those demons in the other dimension.

"Yes, heard you. It was funny," Ford says, and you should be relieved to hear him speak, but his words are short and monotone in a way that makes you wonder if he hasn't been listening at all.

"Hey," you say, taking a softer tone as you bump your shoulder against his. "You doin' okay? Need a break?"

"No, it's... I'm f-fine."

"You sure?"

"Y-Yeah," he says, not very convincingly.

You chew your tongue, thoughts churning in your head. Is Ford still beating himself up over that one small mistake, or is there something else weighing on his mind? Maybe you did something to bother him, though you can't for the life of you imagine what it could be. You want to ask if something's wrong, but you can't even be certain that anything really _is_. Maybe you're misreading the situation and there's nothing to worry about at all! He's probably just worn out from talking so much earlier, and making a big deal out of it would only irritate him. He'd tell you if something was upsetting him, or if you'd done or said something wrong, so you should just trust him.

You _do_ trust him, so you don't say anything more. Instead you shove your free hand in your pocket and keep walking.

***

Around noon—according to Ford, because you sure as hell can't tell—you find a river cutting through the forest. Your mood lifts instantly, the discovery filling you with joy and relief and eliminating at least one of your worries about surviving here. Water has never tasted so good, you think as you gulp down handfuls of it like you're expecting a drought. You splash it on your face, washing away the dirt and grime, relishing how cool and soothing it feels on your eyes.

Ford is more reluctant, mumbling something about not knowing if it's safe to drink, but you grab him by the edge of his coat (you were trying for his hand, but close enough) and pull him down to his knees beside you. He still hesitates for a few moments, so you roll your eyes and flick water off your fingers at him, making him splutter and you laugh, and _then_ he finally decides that he'd rather not die of dehydration and starts drinking.

When you've had your fill to drink and have cleaned yourself up as much as you can without stripping down and taking a dip, you sit back and just... relax. Now that you have a moment to rest, you take this time to listen more intently to your surroundings, focusing on and identifying each individual sound. The river babbles quietly in front of you, and a gentle, refreshing breeze blows through the trees and bushes around you. It's oddly peaceful, and as you enjoy the warmth of the sun on your face, you are infinitely glad that it's not winter in this dimension.

Without warning, a hand lands on your shoulder, and in the back of your mind you know it's Ford's because who _else_ could it be, but instinct puts you on the defensive, flinching and shoving your brother as you scramble away from the unexpected contact, heart suddenly pounding.

"Sorry," you say, at the same time Ford stutters out his own apology. Great. Ford reaches out to you and you literally push him away. Real smart move there.

"Just—just wanted to check your shoulder," he mumbles, words sounding more like they're aimed at the ground than at you.

"Oh. Sure, no problem," you say, shrugging off your jacket and turning your back to him.

Ford gets quiet then, his breath on your back the only sign that he's even looking at the burn, and you once again have to coax him into speaking. "How's it look?"

"I-It's healing," he says shakily, with that undertone of guilt that's starting to seem standard in his voice. "Inflammation's d-down."

"That's good," you say, trying to keep the conversation going. "Itches like hell, though. Wish we had some aloe or somethin' to put on it, like Ma used to put on our sunburns."

Ford makes a small noise of either sympathy or agreement, you can't tell which, but doesn't say anything. The silence stretches out for a minute before he asks, "Can... can I clean it? I d-don't want it getting i-infected again."

"Yeah, go ahead," you say. You're glad your back is turned so he can't see your expression, unable to completely mask your frustration at yourself for making him feel like he needs to ask permission to touch you in the first place.

There's a small splash as Ford dunks something in the river, and then there's a cool cloth on your shoulder, and you have to force yourself to not flinch this time. Because it's not like you're scared of _Ford_ —despite now knowing what things he's capable of doing, which you are currently trying (and failing) to not think about—you're just... defenseless. What if it hadn't been your brother who startled you before, and instead was something more dangerous? How can you ever hope to protect yourself or fight back now if you can't even see who's attacking you? Any strength or fighting skill you have is practically useless if you don't know where to direct it.

As much as you hate to admit it—even just to yourself—you feel completely powerless like this, and it's terrifying.

"Here," Ford says, snapping you out of your thoughts. He drops something in your arms, and it takes all of a second to recognize it as his coat, the material familiar to your fingers. "W-Wear this, until your shoulder h-heals," he adds, when it becomes clear to him that you have no idea why he gave it to you. "You s-should wear at least one thing w-without holes in it."

"Hey, I'll have you know that my left sock doesn't have _any_ holes in it," you say, unable to resist making a wisecrack. "But, uh, thanks." You stand up and pull the coat on. It seems a bit too small for you, short in the sleeves and tight in the shoulders, but it'll do.

You frown slightly when you notice the absence of Ford's journal in any of the pockets. He must've taken it out. Does he not even trust you to hold onto it anymore? Sure, it's probably got some sensitive information mixed in with all the nerd stuff, but it's not like you can actually read it.

You put those thoughts on the back burner as a different one strikes you. "Hey, uh, what about my eyes?"

"Huh?" Ford sounds startled, like you've just distracted him from deep thought.

"My eyes," you repeat. "You gonna check 'em out, make sure they're not infected or whatever?" And by 'whatever,' you mean 'see if there's any chance of them healing and sight returning,' but you don't dare voice such foolish hope aloud. You know you shouldn't expect anything like that.

"O-Oh," Ford practically squeaks. He sounds uncomfortable, and you think maybe you shouldn't have asked, but before you can tell him to forget it he's placing his hands on the sides of your face and turning your head toward him.

After only a few seconds, he lets his hands drop. "Th-They're not infected," he says, and this time you're almost positive he's not looking at you.

You can understand why Ford wouldn't want to look at your burned eyes for too long, though. No doubt they must be a gruesome sight, probably similar to—or possibly worse than—your shoulder. But unlike your shoulder, these burns were no accidents. Now they're reminders of an agonizing moment, the permanent marks of wounds Ford deliberately inflicted.

You suppose you should consider it a small blessing that you'll never have to see them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the next chapter will go up... whenever i finish it ;; in the meantime, feel free to come talk to me on my tumblrs ([fexiled](http://fexiled.tumblr.com) / [fexalted](http://fexalted.tumblr.com)) and bug me to write more!!


End file.
